


Cell Block Tango

by ArgentLives



Category: The Flash (TV 2014)
Genre: Character Death, Dark, Gen, Non-Consensual Touching, Origin Story, Self-Harm
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-05-08
Updated: 2016-05-08
Packaged: 2018-06-07 05:12:24
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,531
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6786751
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ArgentLives/pseuds/ArgentLives
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It was a murder, but not a crime.</p><p>[Zoom is dead, and Killer Frost is born.]</p>
            </blockquote>





	Cell Block Tango

**Author's Note:**

> Warnings for some brief mentions of self-harm and assualt/non-consensual touching; Caitlin deserves better and Zoom gets what he deserves, which is nothing good and certainly nothing from Caitlin, since apparently some people seem to be confused about that.
> 
> The title is from the song from Chicago, obviously. It's stupid I know; I was going for something more dramatic but then I just couldn't get the line "he had it coming" out of my head while writing this. Anyway...

 

Six days since Zoom kidnapped her, four days since she watched him shove his hand through her doppleganger’s heart, brought her back and handcuffed her to a desk in the CCPD (because she is always, always kept shackled), and two hours since The Flash went missing for good, Caitlin Snow’s hair starts to turn white.

She notices it by accident, really—the room that Zoom took her to after telling her with chilling delight that Barry was gone is dark and cold and just as bad as the cage he’d kept her in on Earth-2, except this is worse because now she knows even her words can’t stop him. He’s more dangerous than ever, and he’s killing people, _so many people_ , and he won’t let her go. She slumps back against the wall, her wrists red and raw from how much she’s been tugging against the restraints, and lifts her hands to clutch hopelessly at her head, because she can at least move that much. She tangles her fingers into her hair and digs her fingernails into her scalp, ignoring how limp and _dirty_ it feels, wishing desperately for a shower but not daring to ask. She clenches her jaw so tight her teeth hurt, and her fingers tighten in her hair, pulling and pulling and pulling to remind herself that she’s still here, and she’s alive, and she’s _angry_.

Some time later—she can’t tell how much time is passing, how fast or how slow—her grip finally slackens as sleep calls to her eyelids. When she absently picks the clumps of hair she’s pulled out of her skull off of her fingers and notices something different out of the corner of her eye, suddenly it’s like there’s ice running through her veins, something cold slipping into her stomach and staying there, unmoving, making her feel heavy and cold and full of something she’s too terrified to acknowledge. She swallows hard and finishes brushing the hair off her hands, watching numbly as it falls. It stands out harshly against the black tile, she notices, and hates that she notices, that she even can notice. 

Because it’s _white_.

 

* * *

 

Ten days go by and she doesn’t know what’s going on in the world outside of the room he’s keeping her in other than the fact that he’s killing people—sometimes he even brings parts of them back to her to gloat, and _oh God she just wants to go home_. Ten days and she doesn’t know much besides the fact that there’s no one there to stop him (and no one is coming for her, not anymore, even if they tried they wouldn’t be able to find her, she’s long past that hope), and her lips turn blue. With every exhale the air goes so cold she can see her breath.

She catches sight of her reflection in the reflective surface of the door handle she’ll never be able to reach, not like this, and has to hold back a gag. Her lips are chapped enough that they’re peeling anyway, so she picks and picks at them until they bleed, desperate to get them back to a normal color, red and living. But the cuts freeze over rather than scab and it’s like even her body is turning against her now, every damn thing is always against her, pushing her further and further down, stripping away little bits and pieces of her each time. She keeps picking, anyway.

 

* * *

 

Two weeks and her eyes go from a gentle brown to an icy blue-white, and when she twirls a lock of hair around her finger with shaking, too-pale hands, she isn’t surprised that there’s not a strand of brown in sight.

When she cries, loud, pitiful sobs slipping past blue and cracked lips, the tears freeze on her cheeks, cold, stiff, and uncomfortable. It takes a while, but she clenches her jaw and presses the heels of her palms against her unnaturally colored eyes, squeezing them shut and willing herself to stop, and for once her body listens.

Something in her chest snaps as the tremors subside, and she promises herself she won’t cry anymore, won’t ever let herself be weak or vulnerable like that again, regardless of whether any one is watching. She scrapes away the frozen tear tracks stuck to her face, not bothering to be gentle and pulling off some of her skin in the process. It hurts but she doesn’t cry, she’s done with crying, she’s done with being so powerless, so miserable. Two weeks pass and Caitlin shoves her desperation and despair down deep, only holding onto her resentment, letting it grow and fester and make her feel at least a little less helpless. Everything else is numb.

 

* * *

 

Eighteen days pass and her hands get so cold that the shackles around them turn to ice, and this time when she pulls at them, holding her breath and tugging experimentally, they shatter around her wrists and leave her stumbling back in surprise, a mixture of horror and elation swelling up in her chest as she stands on shaky legs and slowly backs away from those god-awful chains because she’s _free_ except—her back hits something solid, and she doesn’t have to turn around to know that it’s him, can feel the burn from his lightning singing her skin. Despite how much her body craves the heat, his still repulses her.

“I told you,” Zoom says in a voice so filled with twisted delight that it makes feel sick, “We’re not so different, Caitlin. That darkness inside of you—I _understand_. And together this city is ours, Caitlin, this whole earth can be ours. Do you get it now? Don’t you see?”

She doesn’t respond, all the life, all the heat, all the lingering light left in her draining away, leaving her cold, and even more numb than before. And so, so full of hate.

“Caitlin,” he says, voice softer than it has any right to be, and her skin crawls as she feels his hands on her shoulders, spinning her around to face him, ice at her fingertips as he puts a hand on her cheek, a finger crooked under her chin to tilt her head up towards him. “Cait.”

She’s about to push him away, to fight with whatever’s left in her, but as she watches with hatred as his face gets closer and closer a realization dawns on her, one that’s horrifying and exciting all at once. With the realization comes a newfound determination, and it’s so nice to finally be able to feel something again, no matter how much it scares the part of her that’s now buried way down deep. She focuses on the ice flowing steadily through her veins, the cold that she knows will never leave her now. She doesn’t move a muscle as he presses his lips against hers, disgust curdling in her stomach. Her lips stay tightly shut because she refuses to give him that, refuses to give him anything, and instead—she takes.

She can pinpoint the moment he must realize what’s happening, must feel the heat leaving his body, and she hopes with all her heart that it’s painful, that he’s suffering, and for once he’s too slow. Before he can pull away she’s got his feet frozen to the floor, grabbing his face hard in her hands and pulling from there too, keeping her eyes wide open and relishing in the fact that his skin seems to be turning paler, his lips bluer by the second, his eyes wide and full of shock and horror as he stares back at her and she almost laughs at the fact that he looks so betrayed. He has no right. He has no fucking right.

She pulls back just in time to see the light leaving his eyes, his skin turning cold under her fingertips as she takes, and takes, and takes. “I hate you,” she whispers, face inches from his, digging her nails into his cheeks and leaving tendrils of ice in their wake, watching in dark satisfaction as his breath stutters in his throat, leaving his mouth in icy white clouds. She takes the last of what’s left without any hesitation and says, louder this time, “I hate you.”

And then, too soon because she wants him to _suffer_ , it’s over. She rocks back on her heels and tilts her head, considering his body as it slumps to the ground, chunks of frozen skin chipping off and clattering to the floor, and feels herself smile for the first time in weeks—only there’s no warmth behind it, despite the heat she’s just stolen. Instead there’s a hatred in her heart, a bitterness she never knew herself capable of, and yet—for the first time in so long, she feels in control. She feels untouchable, knows that like this nothing and no one can hurt her, not anymore, and she doesn’t ever want to stop feeling this way. _Powerful._

Eighteen days since she was kidnapped by Zoom, with his half-frozen corpse tossed carelessly over her shoulder and a wicked smile twisting her lips, Killer Frost walks out into the world again.


End file.
